Rodrick the Bold

by Suzan Tisdale

  Her head swam with trepidation and outrage as words lodged in her throat. Fergus was as insane as the day was long; there was no doubt of it now.

  “Do ye understand what I be askin’ of ye?”

  Before she could curse him to the devil, Anthara walked into the room.

  “Ah! Sweetin’!” Fergus said to his wife. “Look what I have fer ye!”

  Anthara paused just inside the doorway, her eyes fixed solely on the babe in Muriel’s arms.

  Fergus leaned in to whisper into Muriel’s ear. “Anthara believes she will be keepin’ the babe to raise as her own. Do no’ let her think otherwise, else I shall order Rodrick killed and ye as well. Do ye understand?”

  The tears fell as Anthara approached. “The wet-nurse will no’ be here until the morrow,” she said as she began to pry Cora from Muriel’s arms.

  “Nay!” Muriel cried out. “Leave her be!”

  Roger grabbed Muriel about the waist as Anthara and Fergus pried her daughter from her arms. “Nay! Give her back to me!”

  As soon as Anthara had a good hold on the babe, she turned to walk away, looking gleefully happy. Fergus grabbed Muriel’s arm and twisted it behind her back. “Quiet!” he whispered harshly. “Or I swear I shall have Roger here cut yer throat.”

  Muriel’s heart began to shatter as she watched Anthara walk away.

  Fergus continued his tight hold on her arm, but Muriel ignored the pain. It was nothing compared to the thought of never seeing her child again.

  Yanking harder, Fergus began to speak again. His voice was deep, angry, and menacing. “Ye do as I say or ye shall never lay yer eyes on yer babe again,” he warned her. “Yer husband’s life and yer own rests solely in yer hands.”

  Yer life will rest in them too, ye bloody bastard.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Twas another sleepless night for Muriel. She’d been locked into a tiny room down the hall from Anthara and Fergus, and away from Cora. The only time she was allowed to see the bairn was when ’twas time to feed her. She clung to every moment with her babe, hoping and praying their ordeal would soon be over. Under the close, watchful eyes of Anthara, Muriel fed her daughter, all the while she imagined the different ways she could take Anthara and Fergus’s lives.

  If what Fergus said was true, her husband could very well be dying. The image of him alone, on the cold floor of a dungeon, bleeding to death, tore at her heart. Rodrick needed her. He needed her to be strong, to do whatever she could to gain his freedom. There was no doubt in her mind that he would do the same for her. That was if what Fergus had told her was the truth.

  With a guard at her door and another under her window, any thought of escape was futile. So she remained quiet, refusing to speak to any of them.

  Muriel would do exactly as Fergus wanted only to gain their freedom. If Rodrick was injured, she would see him fully recovered, no matter the cost. And as soon as he was better, they would come back and lay an unholy siege to Fergus MacDonald’s home. Images of his house burning to the ground with him and Anthara still inside were the only thing that brought her any measure of comfort.

  Knowing she needed to eat in order to make milk for Cora, she managed to choke down a few bites of bread and meat that morning. Her stomach was tied in knots of worry and dread and heartache.

  As soon as Muriel was done nursing Cora, Anthara took her away. Muriel’s arms felt cold and empty and it took every ounce of courage not to scream and rail against the woman. The moment Anthara left the room, Fergus stepped inside.

  “We shall be leavin’ shortly, fer me father’s keep,” he told her as he stared out the small window. “Ye will admit to me da that I fathered yer babe.”

  It sickened her to admit to it whenever she was alone. To admit to it publicly would require more strength than she believed she possessed at the moment. Just thinking about it made her want to vomit.

  “Ye will also tell him that ye’ve agreed to allow Anthara and I to raise the babe,”

  Muriel shot to her feet. “Nay!” she cried.

  Fergus held up a hand to stop her protests. “I have as much interest in raisin’ yer babe as ye do in givin’ her up. ’Tis only a wee bit of a lie, I can assure ye. I merely want me inheritance returned to me. Naught else.”

  Unable to believe a word that came out of his mouth, she pretended to believe him. Deep down, she knew Anthara would not give up Cora without a fight. But ’twas a fight Muriel found herself looking forward to.

  “Ye have me word,” Fergus told her.

  She knew his word was as valuable as bird droppings.

  I’ll see ye all dead, she screamed silently. Every last one of ye.

  Fog rolled in and blanketed the isle in a thick, heavy mist. ’Twas just after noonin’ time before Fergus came to take Muriel to the MacDonald keep. He refused her pleas to keep her babe with her. Instead, Anthara held the babe as if she were her very own during the journey north.

  Taking the well-worn path, they rode on horseback, with Fergus and Anthara leading the way. Muriel was surrounded by the Randall men as if she were a criminal they worried would try to escape. They couldn’t have known she would rather die than leave this isle without her babe.

  ’Twas impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Though her heart was breaking, Muriel refused to shed any tears. She clung to her fervent belief that everything she was doing or about to do was for Rodrick and Cora. If he was injured, he needed a healer. If he wasn’t, then certainly he would soon be coming for them. Either way, she knew she had to play along until she learned the truth.

  Fergus called for her to be brought forward. It took a good deal of strength on her part not to reach out and push him off his horse.

  “Remember, yer husband’s life and that of yer babe rests solely in yer hands,” Fergus reminded her. “As soon as ye tell me da that the babe is mine, I will send the healer to tend to yer husband.”

  There was no way for her to gauge his sincerity, for she knew him to be the cruelest sort of man.

  “Tell me ye understand,” Fergus said as he leaned over his mount.

  “I understand,” she replied harshly.

  He nodded his approval before righting himself. “I hope fer yer sake as well as yer husband and babe’s, that ye do no’ ferget me promise. I will kill all of ye if ye refuse to do what I tell ye.”

  Fergus ordered her back to the rear of the procession before she could make her own promise to him. I will see ye dead someday.

  Like a great, giant monster emerging from the netherworld, the MacDonald keep came into view. Materializing through the dense fog, it stood on a grassy knoll overlooking Loch Lethian. Behind the massive stone wall was an outcropping of ancient rocks jutting up from the earth like unearthly fingers reaching from a grave. Muriel could not help but shiver in fear at the sight.

  Young men seemed to appear from nowhere to take their horses. One of her captors pulled Muriel from her mount with little effort or kindness. Soon, she was being pushed up the steps and into the keep.

  They passed under a murder wall, up a small flight of stairs, and into the large gathering room. ’Twas filled with all manner of people, there, she assumed, to seek an audience with their laird and chief.

  There was no mistaking which of the men who sat at the long, high table, was the Chief of the MacDonald Clan. The man sitting in the ornately carved, high backed chair had to be Walter MacDonald.

  A thick, long beard covered most of his face. ’Twas his crystal blue eyes that made her blood run cold. Not as possessed and demonic as his son’s. Nay, these eyes told a thousand stories of battles fought and won, of strength and power. He was not a man to be toyed with nor his patience tested.

  At the moment, he looked bored and perturbed as he listened to a man complaining about one of his neighbors.

  Muriel paid little attention to the proceedings. Looking about the room, she hoped and prayed she’d find Rodrick hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce like a wild cat o’mountain in
order to gain their freedom.

  Her hope faded when she did not see him. Although she did not see him, she could feel his presence. He was here, her heart screamed. But not as her rescuer. ’Twas then an uneasiness fell over her, for she soon began to realize Fergus had not been lying. Somewhere below, in the dark, cold, and filthy recesses of this keep, was her husband. More likely than not, he was dying a slow, agonizing death.

  With that realization, her resolve to save him as he had saved her began to grow. There was no guarantee that Fergus would keep his word. There was a strong possibility that no matter what she did this day, she and Rodrick could very well end up dead. That would leave Cora to be raised by two demented individuals.

  Muriel’s determination increased by the moment. There was no way on God’s earth she would allow her daughter to be raised by these deranged people. Nay, she would do whatever she must to see that didn’t happen.

  She was pulled from her despondent reverie by the sound of Fergus’s voice. “’Tis time.”

  Fergus led Muriel up to the high table, showing great concern for her wellbeing. ’Twas just another of his lies. If she dropped dead now, it wouldn’t matter in the least to him. Muriel and Cora were simply a means to an end.

  He offered a short bow of respect and a warm smile to his father.

  Walter looked just as bored and perturbed with Fergus as he had the previous clansman. He toyed with his beard before taking a glance at Muriel.

  “Da,” Fergus began. “I have come to share me good news with ye.”

  Walter grunted his displeasure. “And what might that be?”

  “I have an heir,” he replied as he turned to wave Anthara forward. His statement piqued Walter’s interest. The man sat upright in his chair, looking confused.

  Muriel found Anthara’s countenance odd. She didn’t come forward with her head held high or her usual smug expression. Nay, she kept her head down and looked meek and mild. Muriel resisted the urge to laugh.

  “I was no’ made aware Anthara was with child,” Walter said as Anthara curtsied and smiled. He gave only a cursory glance toward her and the babe cradled in her arms.

  Fergus’s smile faded as he replaced it with a look of regret and sorrow. “’Tis with great shame that I admit the babe be no’ Anthara’s.”

  Walter’s expression remained aloof. “I said ye must produce an heir, no’ adopt one,” he reminded his son.

  “And I have,” Fergus replied.

  “How do I ken ye did no’ just take a babe and try to pass it off as yer own?” Walter asked.

  Fergus put a hand over his heart and feigned hurt. Turning to face Muriel, he said. “Durin’ a moment of weakness more than a year ago I took to bed a young woman. The result of that encounter is the babe in me lovin’ wife’s arms.”

  Muriel drew her shoulders back but held her tongue. A moment of weakness? An ‘encounter’? The man was mad.

  Biting her tongue, she glared at Fergus.

  Walter turned his focus to Muriel. “Who be ye?”

  “I be Muriel MacElroy, wife to Rodrick MacElroy of the Mackintosh and McLaren clan,” she answered proudly.

  Walter raised a brow. “What game be this ye play?” he asked his son. “The lass be married. How do we ken the babe be no’ his?”

  Fergus appeared ready for the intense scrutiny and questioning. “She was in her seventh month when they married,” he replied.

  “Be this true?” Walter asked Muriel.

  Suddenly her mouth felt as dry as a bone. “Aye.” She nodded. Biting her tongue, she said nothing else for fear of reprisal from Fergus. She’d had firsthand experience with how quickly he could mete out punishment.

  “Where be yer husband?” Walter asked.

  Before she could reply below stairs in yer dungeon, Fergus stepped forward with another of his lies. “Unfortunately, he was unable to join us this day.”

  Walter remained skeptically quiet for a short time. “Did me son father yer bairn?”

  As much as she wished to, she could not change that fact. “Aye,” she replied stoically.

  Another length of silence whilst Walter studied the three people standing before him. Unable to take the silence any longer, Fergus said, “Anthara and I will be raisin’ the bairn as our own.”

  His words felt like a kick to her stomach. Stifling a repulsed gasp, she hung her head. ’Tis only temporary, she promised herself. Until ye can rescue Rodrick. Her tears fell, and this time she cared not who saw them.

  Walter grunted his displeasure directly toward his son. Pursing his lips together, he glowered at Fergus. “Ye think this means ye will get yer inheritance now?” he asked.

  Fergus shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “While it does no’ matter to me,” he began, “I do believe it be important fer me daughter. I will, of course, be officially declaring her mine, and givin’ her me last name. ’Tis with great joy that Anthara and I will raise her together.”

  Feeling victorious, Fergus offered his father his warmest smile. The MacDonald’s edict had declared Fergus must produce an heir. The legitimacy of the heir had never been mentioned nor discussed. Declaring the child his made her so. There could be no other argument against it.

  While Walter appeared to not care one way or another, Fergus knew him better. Unfortunately, he would not be able to gloat, at least not yet. There would be time to celebrate his victory over his father later.

  Blowing out a breath, his nostrils flaring, Walter glared at Fergus. “I believe me edict stated that ye and Anthara must produce an heir. I said nothin’ about allowin’ fer bastards or cast-offs.”

  Fergus was undeterred. “Nay, ye said naught of that. Nor do I believe ye mentioned me wife in yer edict. But the child still be mine.”

  Walter grunted. “Ye say ye care no’ about yer monthly allowance or yer inheritance, aye?”

  “I care only that me daughter be recognized as my child, as a MacDonald,” Fergus said. ’Twas a full out lie and everyone in the room knew it. “I care only that me daughter is taken care of.”

  Walter slowly pushed away from the table and stood to his full height. He was even more imposing then. “Verra well then,” he began. His countenance was that of a self-assured and exceedingly determined man. “Yer daughter — what be her name?”

  Before Muriel could tell him, Anthara spoke up. “We will call her Burunild, after me mum.”

  Muriel could not protest or argue, at least not now. Burunild? ’Twas an awful name for babe as sweet as Cora.

  Walter quirked one bushy eyebrow. “Burunild, then,” he said. “Burunild shall be recognized as yer daughter and as a MacDonald.”

  Fergus stood tall and proud, puffing out his chest like a peacock.

  “She shall receive yer inheritance and monthly allowance when she reaches the age of one and twenty or marries, whichever comes first.”

  Fergus’s eyes bulged with astonishment. Cocking his head to one side he asked for clarification. “And as fer me? I have produced the heir ye required.”

  “Did ye by chance read the edict?” Walter asked.

  Fergus stammered briefly. “I gave it a cursory glance,” he admitted. “I relied on me brother, Gerome, to explain yer wishes to me.”

  Walter raised a brow in irritation. Turning to his steward — a man of middle age, average build, but strikingly bright red hair — he said, “Give me the original document.”

  The steward opened a leather case, old and worn with years of use, and began to search for the requested scroll. All the while, Fergus stood anxious and nervous. Sweat began to form across his brow.

  It took only a few moments for the man to find the document in question. The steward pulled the scroll from the case and handed it to Walter. Walter held the document up for those in the room to see. Without pomp or ceremony, he removed the bit of leather binding and tossed it onto the table. Unrolling the paper, he began to read aloud. “Be it hereby known to one and all that I will disinherit my third born son, Fergus MacDonald
, if he does no’ produce an heir before the first of June in the year of our lord thirteen hundred fifty-seven. He must produce this heir with his legal and lawfully wedded wife, Anthara MacRay. If an heir is not born and livin’ by that date, he will no longer receive the monthly allowance currently allotted to him, nor will he receive any inheritance upon me death. Dated this seventh day of September, the year of our lord thirteen hundred fifty-six, signed Walter MacDonald, chief of the clan MacDonald.” When he finished, he tossed the scroll onto the table. “I believe the date for ye and Anthara to produce an heir has passed.”

  Fergus swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He curled his hands into tight fists. Even Anthara had the good sense to step away from him, for there was no denying his utter fury. Words were lodged firmly in his throat.

  “I produced an heir,” he finally managed to grind out. “I can no’ help it if me wife be barren!”

  Unfazed, Walter crossed his arms over his chest. “When ye were born, I had such high hopes fer ye. But somewhere along the way, ye became naught more than a severe disappointment to me. Ye have become lazy as well as cruel.” Placing his palms on the table, he leaned over it slightly, speaking slowly, as if he did not want Fergus to mistake anything he was about to say. “Ye will no’ get one more bit o’ coin from me. No’ one.” Pausing only to make certain Fergus understood every word he said, Walter stood to his full height. “Now be gone with ye, and take yer barren wife, yer whore and bastard with ye.” Without waiting for a response, Walter MacDonald turned and left the gathering room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hidden in the shadows of the grand gathering room, Rodrick the Bold watched the scene unfolding before him. Like a coiled snake ready to strike its victim, he came close to doing just that as soon as Muriel admitted their babe was fathered by Fergus.

  I be her father! He screamed silently. Ye’re naught more than a bloody son of a whore, Fergus MacDonald.